Hey, hey. I'm still here. And I have the pictures to prove it. Well, not really proof of my existence, but proof that I have a camera. I'm working on blogging something, I really am. It's hard anymore. I know I'll work through it, just as soon as I get accustomed to my new boss, get the stress off my head at work, sell my house, sell my mother-in-law's house, buy a new house, turn 49, and get skinny. Oh, yeah, and not die from bad blood-pressure medicine. That's a long story.

Anyway, I wanted to post something, so here's a couple of pictures I took at a recent Braves game. It was a cool game, Saturday before the All-Star break. Smoltz pitched, got a hit and an RBI, and scored a run. The place went wild. Fun, fun game.

 

Radio H E L L

I have the radio on here this morning, which is something I have not been doing for quite some time. I am in radio crisis. I cannot find anything to listen to that fits my demographic. I spent almost all of my radio time here on 99x, since I moved here. They are alternative rock. For years, they have ruled the market here, and were actually one of the most influential alt rock stations in the US of A, during the 90's. Their format has become stale. They mostly play angry-young-white-teenager-bands anymore, which is repetitive as hell. I liked it when it was just Linkin Park. Now they all sound alike. Besides, I don't fit that type, since I'm not angry any more. They are struggling to retain listeners. All of their listeners have gotten real jobs now, and don't have time for such foolishness.

My second choice is 96Rock. Oldies. I like oldies. However, this is a ClearChannel-owned station, which means they have a playlist that will fit on a 512kb MP3 player. You can listen to every song they ever play in one day. You'll know all the words. It'll stir up some old memory. Just like the extensive market research they did suggests. The main memory you'll have is "boy, I remember this group, and they had a lot of great songs, I wish I could hear some of them." This station ClearlySucks.

The new player here is 97FM, the River. I'll explain that name in a minute. Their demographic skews a little older than 96Rock, except more pop-and-top-40-ish. If you didn't know the words to all the songs on 96Rock, I guarantee that you will on the River. You may drive down the road, singing along, and waving a lighter over your head, setting the head liner on fire. A stray Frisbee may strike you in the head. You can listen to their entire rotation in a trip across Atlanta, which is not really fair to say, since sometimes you can read all of Gone With The Wind in a trip across Atlanta.

The River got the idea for their name from 92.9, daveFM. Yes, dave. FM. 92.9 used to be an oldies rock station, legendary. They genuinely played a good mix, had a big playlist, and thus they had to go. CBS radio bought them. The name is supposed to go along with their tag line, Rock Without Rules. dave would be a way of breaking the rules, instead of calling it z93 Rockin A', or something like that. They don't even capitalize dave in print, to keep with that whole what-a-bunch-of-rebels-we-are thing. Really. What a bunch of sociopaths, disregarding grammar rules like that. Those bastards keep coming in through the exit doors. They ought to be Arrested. The station plays 70's-'06's stuff, but only really cool stuff. No Ozzie here. You will hear a little Led Zeppelin or Kinks. To prove how thoroughly modern cool they are, they play Black Horse and Cherry Tree at least every hour, and Ben Harper at least twice a day. I can't stand them. I refuse to have someone define my cool for me.

Let the vodka do the talkin'

Hello there. I finally decided to post a little something on here. What inspired me was the fact that I am dog-tired today, from a huge lack of sleep last night. Of course, the martini is helping. In fact, it's driving. Not driving in the car-on-the-street sense, that would be wrong. Don't drink and drive. No, I've had a total of two sips, and woohoo there we go. Hey, maybe I should drink all the time when I'm not at work. That'd get the old creative juices flowing, eh? I'm sure my stories would be both sparkling with wit, and gripping in their detail..oh, dinner's ready. I'll be back!

Something's Fishy

Ok, sports fans, here's the link to the recipe. I actually did make this one up on my own. Not that I haven't done that before, it's just that this one gets a little cred. Try it, let me know if you like it. Maybe I'll start blogging on food.

Yes, once again I have reached new heights of fame. I have scored a win in the Atlanta Journal's 5:30 Challenge, in the Food section. I won't be published until April 27, but I got the new prize in the mail today. I just had to show them off. Please, no autographs.


 

Staring into the mouth of defeat

I found out today that I will not be able to make any financial gain off of my radiation burn. I will not be able to sue my doctor, not without another one coming forward to say that what happened to my back was malpractice. My attorney tried to go at it from the standpoint of battery. Naturally, the hospital was able to distance themselves from the technicians and physicians involved by claiming that none of them were their employees. Technically, that is true, since they are all contracted labor. The hospital only provides the machinery and the bed. We will not be able to use the battery angle, because the state appeals court just struck down a ruling on an almost identical case. Since the patient assented to the procedure, and the physician did nothing out of anger or malice, there is no battery, in the state of Georgia. The legislature here enacted a law last February ‘05 limiting any malpractice suit in the state to a maximum of $250,000. I could get some expert testimony from another state. I will not make enough to be worth it after paying the attorneys, the court costs, and the expert witness. I may not break even in that scenario. I will not be able to get a local physician to testify against another, not even in a city as big as Atlanta.

It looks like this is over. I plan to make a couple of last-minute attempts to save it, but things do not look good for the home team.

Wings

Did I tell you that I hate Kentucky Fried Chicken commercials? I do. They have chosen to align themselves with the redneck-America right. Hear me out. What's their theme song? Sweet Home Alabama. It's the instrumental break, except for some reason someone dubbed in what sounds like honky-tonk piano. Actually, it sounds like the solo Steve Gaines played in They Call Me The Breeze. They play this on every commercial, during the announcer's bit. Now, Lynyrd Skynyrd music does not automatically qualify someone as a redneck. But you have to admit, their music does bring to mind a stereotype of listener. Think trailer park, curlers, old Camaro, cinderblock steps. Next, look closely at their graphics in the commercial. It's in the print ads, too. They letters are blocked, all caps, arranged in three or four lines--what does that look like? Exactly, like one of those signboards you see in front of every convenience store in the country. They always say something like "CIGS-$24.99" and "T-SHIRTS" and "GOD BL SS OUR TRO PS" and "WRESTLING TUE $5". The KFC Corporation has branded their multi-million dollar name to be associated with cheap, towable signboards and generic cigarettes. No pride.

Here's the upside to being in the hospital. While I there, Abby made this for me. Abby is the 4-year old that my wife nannys. (Isn't there a word for a child looked after by a nanny? I can't find it.) Abby spent Monday with her playfriends, since Linda was with me. I thought this was very sweet. 

Hair

I just got out of the hospital again yesterday. Once again, I had some chest pain problems that made me doubt my cardiac health, and I went into the ER, who sent me to CCU, who sent me to the Cath Lab on Monday. The good news: Nothing's wrong in there. Evidently, the new meds I am taking caused a buildup of fluid around the heart.

The worst part is the telemetry equipment. This is not a problem for most of the population, except for that percentage with gorilla-like hair growth on their bodies. If I had planned a trip into the hospital, knowing I would get an EKG, I might have taken my moustache-and-ugly-nose-hair trimmer and mowed a few spots. Really! When I was in Cardiac Rehab, they told us to trim the hedges in a few spots, because every time I went in I had to hook up a monitor with those stickers. Every single person that had to hook me up to a monitor in the last couple of days would pull up my shirt, and just the sight of the hair on my chest, the realization of the sheer abundance, would cause them to freeze for a second. You could see the conflict running through their minds. Here's a man with a potential heart problem whom they know they can help by giving this person an EKG, and there is enough hair there to make them think twice because they know that eventually someone will have to rip the stickers off this individual. Then they would do that "Oh, well" head-and-shoulder shrug and look at me and say "Sorry about this." Or they'd look in and do that pained look, where they're all puckered up and squint, and go "Ooooh," and then apologize. When I got into the Cath Lab, that nurse pulled off my gown, and didn't say a word. She just walked over to a table and got one of those trimmers they use and mowed out a couple of spots, and all the way across my chest at about the collar bone. I said "Bless you." I saw a halo around her head. I was also being sedated at the time, so that may account for it. So now I have what looks like crop circles on my chest. If we were at the beach, people would be gathering around in small crowds, going "What does it all mean?" I'm sure that if I go outside without a shirt, and face the right direction, I can get UFO's to attack New York. And I have one bare spot, dead center below the sternum. It was never shaved. I mean it. I had to rip the sensor off on Sunday, because it wasn't making good contact. It made a noise like somebody was tearing duct tape. I held up what looked like a carpet sample, and showed it to the nurse. She said "Damn." I showed the hole to Linda and Doreen when we got home, and I thought they were going to poop in the floor.

My Desk. A statement on the 21st century.

This may appear to be an ordinary desk, and I am sure that many desks look just as cluttered. But as a person of age, it is also a statement. Many thanks to those of you who just thought "oh, you're not that old." But I am a true baby-boomer, born almost smack-dab in the middle of the whole thing, and therefore can claim the age title, if only so a rant can have more credibility.

In the photo, I have a digital camera, a rechargeable battery charger, the batteries, a digital watch, a charger for my new cellphone, the new cell phone, the earbuds for my mp3 player, the new case for my mp3 player, a digital glucose meter that gives under-eight-second-results, a remote control for a stereo, the base charger for my 2.4 GHz portable phone, with digital answering machine, the speaker from the set connected to the computer, and the printer connected to the computer. How did I get this photo, when my digital camera was the first thing listed? I used my other digital camera, silly.

I was a sci-fi geek in school, back when we didn't have geeks. I was good in science and math, and jumped right on the computer bandwagon when they started to become available, although I admit to getting my own very much later. I studied them in college. The computer on my desk, which is five years old, can do more now that the mainframe that I used in college, and that one took up an entire room. I have a small garbage can in a closet, full of old photographs. I also have an extra 80-gig hard drive on my computer that I added just to hold photographs, and it already has about a garbage-can-full on it, and will hold many, many more. I digress. I sat here this morning amazed at the amount of electronics available to me, as an ordinary citizen of the planet. I realized that I never imagined all this would be here, so many years ago. I don't feel overwhelmed or awe-struck or anything. I just realize I may have been thinking small.

RollerBallroom

Two days from now, I start BallRoomDancing. Yes, it's true. For Christmas, I gave my wife lessons and my company every Monday for six weeks. We'll be challenging Jerry Rice himself in the next few days, I bet. I'm more than a little apprehensive, but not because I can't dance. The handicaps: 48, fat, bad knees, bad back, fat. The assets: not dead, have rhythm, can spell rhythm, willing to participate, can be expressive (which means that I can pull a George Hamilton and ham the judges), was once decently athletic. Did I mention I was fat? Here's what I hope to gain out of this: 1) Learn a little dancing 2) Show Linda a good time 3) Get us both up off the couch 4) Maybe open up an avenue for us to have a different interest we can share. See? I AM giving and caring. And, I get to look at the hot chicks in the skimpy outfits. Bonus!

A Blurb.

My back has eased up considerably, but I'm still moving Gingerly, which I guess means that I'm wearing a tight sequined dress and a poofy red wig. Dang, I knew we shouldn't have seen Brokeback Mountain. (Just a joke, we didn't see the movie. And I ain't wearing the dress.) I have more one-liners about the movie. Yippie-I-gay. Homo on the range. Howdy, domestic partner. Head West, young man. Dances With Boys. And, when you think about it, some Western things don't have to change a bit to have a little ring of gay to them. Lash LaRue. Riders of the Purple Sage. A Fistful of Dollars. True Grit. Gunslinger. Blazing Saddles. Wait, I'll be right back. Clint Eastwood and John Wayne's ghost are here to kick my ass.

How do I get off on stuff like that? It's like my fingers get possessed.

And Now A Word From Our Sponsors

In an effort to justify having a blog at all, I have signed up for Google ads, as you can see. This works for me on so many levels. A move like this is what it takes to inspire someone to push themselves a little more, have a little more discipline, get some work out there, all under the guise of possible payment. My first motivating factor here is good, old-fashioned greed. I just want to see if and how much money I can generate from this. There are several ways to get paid by Google, and I plan to explore them deeper as time goes on. For now, the ad plan will do.

Second, any income stream generated by a project like this is a concrete way to verify that you are actually, indeed, being read. What an ego boost. If someone clicks on an ad, then it means that they saw my blog. Accidently or on purpose, it doesn't matter. The hole in this theory is that you could have run across someone who randomly clicks on ads, thereby never actually reading anything. And there are those who belive that, in my case, not reading is as it should be, but I hate those guys anyway, so who cares. I digress.

Everyone who ever wrote something wants to know it was read, by someone. A grade-schooler with an English essay has the same wish as a famous author. Both want someone to read and acknowledge their stuff. Granted, if you publish 10,000 copies of a book, you stand a better chance of having an audience, but a much diminished possibility of getting a bunch of them back with red pencil marks all over them.

So, if you're compelled, click on an ad. This, and maybe a couple of other times a week, will be the last time I beg for this type of treatment. Really.